Pal. To prostitute your honour to a clod
Of mould'red earth!
Sal. And in an icy bed
To starve your blooming comforts?
Til. This exceeds
All spousal suffering, which preceding times
In our Italian stories ever read,
Or in their sable annals register'd.
Flo. Much of Sir Tristram Shorttool (so I think
Men call your husband) have I ofttimes heard,
And his penurious humour. But your wrongs
Were strangers to me, till your own relation
Display'd their quality; which to allay,
Nay, quite remove, transmit the care to us
And our directions, to supply your wants.
We should be just to all, but still retain
A bosom-pity to the weaker sex.
If we observ'd not this with tenderness,
We should not merit this judicial seat,
Whereto——
1st Boy.These Dabrides rais'd you.
[Aside.
Til. Now, Madam Tinder, your aggrieves are last.
Tin. But not the least. What woman could endure
In spousal rights to have a stranger share
In her enjoyments? or remain depriv'd
Of her propriety by losing those
Appropriate dues which nature has ordain'd,
And sacred rights approv'd? You see I'm young,
And youth expects that tribute which our sex
May challenge by descent.
All.Her plea is good.
Tin. Would you not, reverend consuls, hold it strange
To see a savage, unconfined bull,
When th' pasture's fruitful, and the milk-pail full,
And all delights that might content a beast,
Range here and there, and break into those grounds
Which are less fertile, and where neither shade
Affords him umbrage, nor smooth-running brooks
Streams to allay his thirst: nay, where the grass,
Too strow[129] for fodder, and too rank for pasture,
Would generate more fatal maladies
Than a whole college of state empirics
Or country farriers had art to cure?